“But what does it say about me that two years later I’m still so fucked-up about it that I have to be treated for a grief disorder? Why? Because I still think it’s so fucking unfair that everyone else in our group of friends got their happy endings at the expense of mine? What kind of person thinks that? What kind of person can’t talk to her best friend because all she wants to do is scream that it’s not fair? That everyone acted like my heart didn’t matter—I didn’t matter. Paisley didn’t even tell me herself, or even think about me. Ember had to tell Sam to call me. That’s how I found out he was dead. And I know Paisley’s husband was wounded, but a lifetime of friendship didn’t afford me a moment of consideration from anyone but Sam and Grayson.”

My jaw flexed as she tugged the safety glasses free and threw them on the counter.

“God, how can it still hurt so much after all this time? He never even loved me. I don’t even have the right to grieve him like this,” she cried, and I moved.

A few seconds later, I was around the bar and in front of her, gripping her arms lightly so she’d look at me.

“Morgan, grief isn’t a measure of how much someone loved you. It’s the measure of how much you loved them. You have every right to feel however the hell you want to feel. Do you understand me?”

She swallowed and looked up at me from under the brim of his cap. The man who I’d never met and would never want to. How could anyone be stupid enough to turn down Morgan’s love?

“I don’t want to feel like this anymore.” Her eyes filled with tears, and I pulled her into my arms, resting my chin on her head as she cried into my chest.

“I know you don’t.”

“I want to be happy and to have a heart that’s worth risking. I miss my friends. I miss him, but then there’s you, and I want to be ready for whatever this is, and it all just jumbles in my head.” Her sobs shook her shoulders.

“I’ll wait for as long as you need me to,” I promised her again. “You don’t have to factor me in to your healing. I’m not going anywhere.”

She cried herself out, then stepped back and wiped her tears away with a dusty forearm that left streaks on her face. And still, the woman was beautiful.

“I’m sorry. I probably should have asked how your day was,” she muttered.